COMPLETE SHORT STORY. THE CURE’S FIGHTING COCK

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume XIV, Issue 201, 2 August 1924, Page 9

COMPLETE SHORT STORY. THE CURE’S FIGHTING COCK

By HUMPHREY FEILDEN and D. M. STUART.

“Monsieur le Cure, monsieur le Cure, what shall we do? Here comes another of them!”

Monsieur le Cure closed the book with a sigh. He knew all too well who they were, and why Margot, his stalwart housekeeper, was making such a to-do.

“His man is here now,” bubbled Man-got, wringing her fat hands, “He has mountains of luggage, this one. And here he comes! Another mouth to feed! Alas, my poor hens!” The Cure sighed again, laid down his breviary, gathered togethre his threadbare soutane, and slowly followed the good woman into the narrow hall of the Presbytery, which was choked up with packing cases and trunks. In the door-way stood his latest billet, OberLieutenant Von Leber und Speck. To the Cure’s bow he replied with a sort of nod as he came in, unclasping his high stiff collar, but omitting to remove the peaked cap from his head.

“1 have been travelling since before dawn,” he jerked out in his thick French, “I w : sh to sleep. Let your servant show me my room. And let my luggage be brought up at once.”

After one despairing glance at the painted wooden statu© of St. Peter by the garden-door, the Cure returned to his book. He heard Margot padding up the‘creaky old stairs, the jingle of the Ober-Lieutenant’s spurs, the heavy tread of his orderly. Then, after a crash or two and a rafter-shaking thud, the Presbytery was quiet once more. Inside, that is to say. Outside, Pierre, the Cure’s cock, was strutting about, his brilliant comb flapping defiantly over on© eye, in search of the stray grains which had someljow grown few’er since the grey men came. He was a perky little chap, and he tried hard to make more noipe than the guns. He had not yet succeeded, but he firmly believed that he would manage it to-morrow, if not to-day. A lot of things puzzled Pierre very much, though he managed to. explain them all to the hens somehow or qGier, so that they should not guess that he was puzzled. One thing was tho silence of the church-bell: then the Curd was so sad, and there were such queer birds about, that flew high up amongst the clouds, and tha.t men tried to hit with balls of smoke: and now and then there was an odd crash beyond the village, and a lot of dust. Pierro was quite sure that the grey men had something to do with all this. Ho ruffled his ruddy gold feathers whenever he saw them, and he crowed louder than ever, to relieve his feelings and to cheer up the Cure. Von Leber und Speck didn’t remain upstairs long. About a quarter of an hour later lie came blundering down, and in wild array, saying things about the Cure cock.

“Not a iioment’s peace,” be spluttered “Not a wmk of sleep I I will wring the little brute’s neck.” That was the beginning of his acquaintance with Pierre. The OberLieutenant knew a game-cock when he saw one. and he soon spotted a fine fighter in the fiery little Frenchman. When the day of his departure came, and the Cure stood watching the orderly banging the luggage o.n tn the long grev car. Von Leber und Speck fluttered a five-franc 'note between his fingers and said: “Look hjpre, Padre, I want that little cock of yours. Give my orderly the key of the fowl-run— I’ve got a basket for him.” “But. Monsieur,” gasped the poor Cure, “Pierre is not for sale!” “1 believe vou,” inutteied Margot, panting with anger over th© s shoulder, “Our little Pierre: Say L* Mon Reverend-—a big LN o'!’

The Cure tried hard, but Von Leber und Speck spoke a few quick words to his man, and iu a moment the rickety door of the run was wrenched open, and Pierre was scuffling between two heavy. German boots. “I have him Herr Lieutenant,” cried the orderly. But he was wrong. Pierre nipped out of his hands and dodged across the dusty run, while the hens fled on all sides, squeaking pitifully. “Help him, you!” be’.lowed the Ober-Lieutenant, turning to Margot. He didn’t catch what she answered, but he knew she was saying what she thought of him and the rest of the grey men. and his huge ears purpled. Pierre fluttered and darted and dashed to and fro, and the orderly floundered after him.

“Hurry up there, can’t you?” snapped Von Leber und Speck. “1 have him!” cried the orderly. This time he was right. Pierre was a prisoner, and they buckled the lid of the basket over his little crimson crest.

The poor Cure’s eyes were wet as he watched the bzasket being carried out to the car.

“I told you I would have him, Padre,” laughed Von Leber und Speck, “I told you 1 would have your little French cock!” He flicked the livefranc note on to the battered oak bench beneath the painted image of St. Peter by the Cure’s door, and jangled away. So went Von Leber und Speck, without a word of farewell: and so went Pierre, and the Cure’s blessing with him.

From the rest-camp Pierre was up to the front-line trenches, and there , he began his strange new life as a fighting-cock. He was a born Frenchman and a born fighter, and he made short work of most of the slower and heavier birds that were pitted against him. The grey men got to know what a hard little hitter he was. and in their stupid way they were angry; they wanterl to see him beaten, Ijiit they were disappointed every time, and Von Leber und Speck pocketed the stakes after every match that Pierre won. The Ober-Lieutenant grew quite fond of himself for having spotted him, and he was not the least bit ashamed of having carried him off by main force. So Pierre’s fame went abroad, and soon his new master began to think that he would never be knocked out. But a certain big Bavarian who had lost money Letting against the French cock, determined that he should be. On his return from leave this Bavarian brought with him a brute of a dufflegrev Pomeranian bird, with a dull, wicked eye and savage spurs. Von Leber und Speck was not alarmed, lie backed Pierre to beat the Pomeranian, and invited the Uommaiuuint to lunch with him on the day after the match, which was fixe.l tor January 6th., 1917. There would bo yet another victory to celebrate thought Von Leber und Speck.

When the day came, and Pierre was dumped down in the ring, he knew he was up against the biggest fight of his life, and the ruddy-golden feathers bristled on his neck. All round the grey men squatted and sprawled, and they seemed very big and very ugly to the perky little fellow in the centre. Von Leber und Sjxick stood somewhat apart, looking down placidly over his high collar. The Bavarian knelt behind his duffle-coloured rooster, with a long can© between his knees. Pierro took two prancing, tip-toe steps forward and tossed his comb in defiance. Then an odd thing happened. > Everyone could sec that the Pome- I ranian funked fighting. His backer tried to push him on. and encouraged him with clucking cries; but the big bird simplv wouldn’t fight. The little one would, right enough. Von Leber

und Speck had been sure of him. Stuttering angrily, Pierre hurled himself upon the grey brute, und there wag a flurry of leathers us they joined. The fight didn’t last loug. It was really hardly u fight at all: for Pierre hustled and jabbed the Pomeranian so heartily that a buzz of dismay rose from the other side, and th© OberLieutenant smiled above his high collar. This was more than the Bavarian could stand. He bent forward suddenly and cut at the French cock with his cane. The next thing Pierre knew was that the grey bird had gone, and that a low hoarse groun was running round the circle of grey men—not a human sort of sound, but angry and blind, like the sound of a great storm; and when ht tried to move, his torn wings beat in yain. Von Leber und Speck stood looking down at the little hrencfi cock, and turned him round with the toe of his boot. He saw at once that Pierre’s fighting days were done. And ha deemed chat the best place for a cock with a broken leg would be the stewpot.

“Take him dowu into the dug-out,” he said to his orderly, “The Couunandmant will lunch with me to-morrow. 1 must arrange the menu. Send the mesasteward to me in ten minutes’ time.”

Huddled in a corner of the dug-out, Pierre lay wondering what would happen to him now. he knew that he would never fight again. And he thought about his old home and his old master, and the days before he wag a fighting-cock among the grey men. Had St. Peter forgotten his little namesake? When the mess-steward came he said that the cock had better be killed at 11 o’clock on the following morning, and starve in the meantime. So Pierre spent the night in the dug-out. suffering a good deal, but wide awake, and ruffling his feathers when he remembered the big fellow that wouldn’t fight. St. Peter had not forgotten, however, At five minutes to eleven next morning, when Von Leber und Speck was still clad in pink silk pyjamas, a thousand guns spoke from the ruins of Arras. It was the seventh of January, the date of the famous day-light raid made by the 9th. division—the Mad 9th., it was called. The troops engaged were Highlanders and South Africans; amongst them were regiments whose rule in battle was to take few prisoners: a rule they kept, for the most part, faithfully. In the deep dug-out of the second line Pierre lay, with the earth booming and quivering above him. Then lots of things happened in a very short time. Tho Jocks passed the first-line trenches and left no living man behind them. Then they, reached the second line. There was a shout, a thud of feet on wooden rungs, and Pierre saw three men in strange, splendid garments fling themselves into the dugout. It was his first glimpse of the Jocks, and it was the Commandant’s last. Von Leber und Speck’s guest whipped out a revolver. And then something happened to him which made the Ober-Lieutenant throw up his high-born hands and gulp out “Kamerad.”

“lake him back to the lines, Sergeant,” said the Jacks’ officer, curtly, ••I’ll push ahead with Macpherson.” Von Leber uud Speck glanced hurriedly around him. When two or three kilted figures had climbed up into the light of oay again, he was alone with the Sergeant. Could he gain time? The Sergeant, at any rate, was determined to lose none.

“Are ye ready?” he rapped out, “Awa’ up thae steps wi’ ye I” Con Leber und Speck stiffened, and his pale eyes flickered. “This is preposterous,” he broke forth, in English, “I decline; —I absolutely decline—to go back without an officer-escort.”

It has bad enough for the Scotsman to be held in parlei’ with a truculent Hun, but to be insulted into the bargain was more than a Lindsay could brook. His bayonet glinted ag he spoke. “If ye’ll no gang back wi’ me, ye shall gang alane to your Maker!” So died Von Leber und Speck; and Lindsay pressed on to the fray. For ~a time everything was so still in the dug-out. Pierre began to think he had been forgotten, and that he would never see his big friend the sun again. But oresently there was a quick step on the ladder, and the flash of an electric torch, and one of the brown men—not a Jock—peered round in the gloom. He was an artillery liaison officer, one of those who go over yith the second wave of attack, and. being rather a youthful officer, he W’as hunting for souvenirs. Pierre stirred in his dark corner, and tried to clap his dusty wings. “Hullo!” whistled the liaison officer, stooping to look at him, “How did you blow in here?” i He lifted Pierre very gentlv between his hands, and found that his leg was broken. “If we take you b.K'k to the wagonlines and get you pat< hed up, old boy,” said he “you will make a top-hole mascot for C Battery.” He didn’t stay much linger in the dug-out, but he foun«* another souvenir, ns well as the I tile French cock, to take back with h’ «» It was a small silver dagger, quit* a beauty. And it also had once belonged to OberLieutenant von Leber und Speck.

“THIS BLESSED PLOT.” “Lovely, lovely England,” sing, Fresh and green in happy spring; Mark what floods the heavens do fling | In the month of May! ; Merry, merry England, dear. Never smiles but through a tear; ! Who would live elsewhere than here | In the month of May ? Not an Englishman, I trow, But through rain would smiling go, Strong as horse and swift as roe, | In the month of May. England in the month of May! Crystal rain-drops every day! “Ever doth it rain,” they say England is divine! —Douglas Boyle. All men are born free and equal, but some of them grow up and marry. ! Don’t think that because love is blind your neighbours are troubled with optical illusions. The man doesn’t live who has not at one time thought he had all the elements of greatness in him. i* • • i The youthful graduate is probably I th© only person who knows enough 1 to run the affairs of the State successfully. i Listening, with the most of us, is a matter of waiting until the other P er * son has finished. • • • The needle always has an eye out for business, and seldom fails to carry its point.